1
   

Favorite Poem

 
 
aidan
 
  1  
Reply Thu 8 Feb, 2007 04:55 am
On Prayer
by Czeslaw Milosz

You ask me how to pray to someone who is not.
All I know is that prayer constructs a velvet bridge
And walking it we are aloft, as on a springboard,
Above landscapes the color of ripe gold
Transformed by a magic stopping of the sun.
That bridge leads to the shore of Reversal
Where everything is just the opposite and the word 'is'
Unveils a meaning we hardly envisioned.
Notice: I say we; there, every one, separately,
Feels compassion for others entangled in the flesh
And knows that if there is no other shore
We will walk that aerial bridge all the same.

Translated by Robert Hass


"Czeslaw Milosz was born June 30, 1911 in Seteiniai, Lithuania, as a son of Aleksander Milosz, a civil engineer, and Weronika, née Kunat. He made his high-school and university studies in Wilno, then belonging to Poland.
In 1960, invited by the University of California, he moved to Berkeley where he has been, since 1961, Professor of Slavic Languages and Literatures."

"Grow your tree of falsehood from a small grain of truth.
Do not follow those who lie in contempt of reality.
Let your lie be even more logical than the truth itself,
So the weary travelers may find repose."
Czeslaw Milosz (b. 1911), Lithuanian-born Polish poet. Child of Europe, sect. 4, Selected Poems (1973).
0 Replies
 
snood
 
  1  
Reply Thu 8 Feb, 2007 05:17 am
sad, djj...


I have too many to name one, also. But I have to mention e.e. cummings...

old age sticks

old age sticks
up Keep
Off
signs)&

youth yanks them
down(old
age
cries No


Tres)&(pas)
youth laughs
(sing
old age

scolds Forbid
den Stop
Must
n't Don't


&)youth goes
right on
gr
owing old
0 Replies
 
aidan
 
  1  
Reply Thu 8 Feb, 2007 11:06 pm
Tonight of Yesterday
by Vona Groarke

The evening slips you into it, has kept a place for you
as those wildwood limbs that have already settled on
the morning. The words you have for it are flyblown now
as the dandelion you'll whistle tomorrow into a lighter air.
But tonight, your sleep will be as round as your mouth,
berried with the story of sunlight finally run to ground.
You are all about tomorrow. The moon has your name
memorized: the curl of your back, your face, an open book.

"Groarke's poems often have an air of simplicity, as though they were no more involved than the Irish songs from which many of them are partly descended. But their grounded, private acuteness, their silent insistence on discovering their own methods, make them subtler and more complex than the poems of most of Groarke's more extravagantly ambitious contemporaries." Brian Phillips, Poetry
She lives in County Louth, Ireland.
0 Replies
 
aidan
 
  1  
Reply Tue 13 Feb, 2007 01:03 am
Full Moon and Little Frieda
by: Ted Hughes

A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket -
And you listening.
A spider's web, tense for the dew's touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming - mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.

Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath -
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
'Moon!' you cry suddenly, 'Moon! Moon!'

The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed.


THE THOUGHT-FOX
by Ted Hughes

I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star:
Something more near

Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:

Cold, delicately as the dark snow,
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now

Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

Across clearings, an eye,

A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business

Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.


"Edward James Hughes OM (17 August 1930 - 28 October 1998) was an English poet and children's writer, known as Ted Hughes. Critics routinely rank him as one of the best poets of his generation. Hughes was British Poet Laureate from 1984 until his death."
0 Replies
 
aidan
 
  1  
Reply Tue 13 Feb, 2007 11:52 pm
Distances
0 Replies
 
aidan
 
  1  
Reply Wed 14 Feb, 2007 11:45 pm
The Arrow
by Marin Sorescu

Wounded, he'd have
been lost in the forest
had he not followed the arrow.

More than half
of it
protruded from his chest
and showed him the way.

The arrow
had struck him in the back
and pierced his body.
Its bloody tip
was a signpost.

What a blessing
to have it point
a path
between the trees!

Now he knew
he'd never again
go wrong

and he
wasn't far from
the mark.

(translated from the Romanian by John Williams and Hilde Ottschofski)

"Marin Sorescu (1936-96), Romania's Nobel Prize nominee the year of his untimely death, was his country's most widely celebrated and frequently translated contemporary writer, particularly well known throughout Europe. More than a dozen books of poetry and plays have appeared in English, mainly in the U.K. and Ireland, and Sorescu's translators include Seamus Heaney, W. D. Snodgrass, Michael Hamburger, Ted Hughes, and Paul Muldoon. He authored more than twenty collections of poetry, among them Poems (1965), The Youth of Don Quixote (1968), Cough (1970), Fountains in the Sea (1982), Water of Life, Water of Death (1987), Poems Selected by Censorship (1991), and The Crossing (1994). His valedictory volume, The Bridge, published posthumously in 1997, was composed during the final two months of his life, while he knew he was dying of liver cancer, with Sorescu often dictating the poems to his wife, Virginia, because he was too weak to write them down himself."
0 Replies
 
Lash
 
  1  
Reply Wed 21 Feb, 2007 11:38 pm
A few poems I'm fond of:

THE DARKLING THRUSH

by: Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

LEANT upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seem'd to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seem'd fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carollings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessèd Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

Hap The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
0 Replies
 
aidan
 
  1  
Reply Wed 21 Feb, 2007 11:42 pm
Septuagesima
by John Burnside

I dream of the silence
the day before Adam came
to name the animals,

The gold skins newly dropped
from God's bright fingers, still
implicit with the light.

A day like this, perhaps:
a winter whiteness
haunting the creation,

as we are sometimes
haunted by the space
we fill, or by the forms

we might have known
before the names,
beyond the gloss of things


"Poet and novelist John Burnside was born on 19 March 1955 in Dunfermline, Scotland. He is a former Writer in Residence at Dundee University and now teaches at the University of St Andrews. His first collection of poetry, The Hoop, was published in 1988 and won a Scottish Arts Council Book Award. Other poetry collections include Common Knowledge (1991), Feast Days (1992), winner of the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize, and The Asylum Dance (2000), winner of the Whitbread Poetry Award and shortlisted for both the Forward Poetry Prize (Best Poetry Collection of the Year) and the T. S. Eliot Prize. The Light Trap (2001) was also shortlisted for the T. S. Eliot Prize.

John Burnside lives in Fife. His memoir, A Lie About My Father, and a Selected Poems were published in 2006. His latest collection of poetry is Gift Songs (2007) and his latest novel is The Devil's Footprints (2007)."
0 Replies
 
aidan
 
  1  
Reply Thu 1 Mar, 2007 12:03 am
Living
by Denise Levertov

The fire in leaf and grass
so green it seems
each summer the last summer.

The wind blowing, the leaves
shivering in the sun
each day the last day.

A red salamander
so cold and so
easy to catch, dreamily

moves his delicate feet
and long tail. I hold
my hand open for him to go.

Each minute the last minute.


Quote:
Denise Levertov
Poet
Born: 24 October 1923
Died: 20 December 1997(complications from lymphoma)
Birthplace: Ilford, Essex, England
Best known as: The politically-active poet who wrote With Eyes at the Back of our Heads
Denise Levertov published her first book of poems in England in 1946. She married and moved to America in 1947, and became a U.S. citizen in 1955. In the 1960s she was poetry editor for The Nation, and in the 1970s she was poetry editor for Mother Jones. Though raised in Britain, she is widely considered an "American" poet, known for her political and social consciousness. Her published works include With Eyes at the Back of our Heads (1959), Jacob's Ladder (1962) and Relearning the Alphabet (1970).
0 Replies
 
aidan
 
  1  
Reply Tue 13 Mar, 2007 12:03 am
Wild Geese
Quote:
BIOGRAPHY
Mary Oliver (b. 1935) was born in Cleveland, Ohio. She spent one year at Ohio State University and a second year at Vassar. Her distinctive poetic talent led to an appointment as the chair of the writing department of the Fine Arts Workshop in Provincetown, Massachusetts (1972-1973). Though she never graduated from college, she was awarded the Mather Visiting Professorship at Case Western Reserve University for 1980 and 1982, and, among her many awards and honors, she received a National Endowment of the Arts Fellowship (1972-1973) and a Guggenheim Fellowship (1980-1981).

The first of her several volumes of poems, No Voyage and Other Poems, appeared in 1963. Other books include New and Selected Poems (1992), A Poetry Handbook (1995), and Blue Pastures (1995), a collection of prose nature writing. One critic, commenting on her work, asserts that "her vision of nature is celebratory and religious in the deepest sense."
0 Replies
 
aidan
 
  1  
Reply Fri 23 Mar, 2007 01:21 pm
You Will Remember
by Pablo Neruda

You will remember that leaping stream
where sweet aromas rose and trembled,
and sometimes a bird, wearing water
and slowness, its winter feathers.

You will remember those gifts from the earth:
indelible scents, gold clay,
weeds in the thicket and crazy roots,
magical thorns like swords.

You'll remember the bouquet you picked,
shadows and silent water,
bouquet like a foam-covered stone.

That time was like never, and like always.
So we go there, where nothing is waiting;
we find everything waiting there.



Brown and Agile Child
by Pablo Neruda

Brown and agile child, the sun which forms the fruit
And ripens the grain and twists the seaweed
Has made your happy body and your luminous eyes
And given your mouth the smile of water.

A black and anguished sun is entangled in the twigs
Of your black mane when you hold out your arms.
You play in the sun as in a tidal river
And it leaves two dark pools in your eyes.

Brown and agile child, nothing draws me to you,
Everything pulls away from me here in the noon.
You are the delirious youth of bee,
The drunkedness of the wave, the power of the heat.

My somber heart seeks you always
I love your happy body, your rich, soft voice.
Dusky butterfly, sweet and sure
Like the wheatfiled, the sun, the poppy, and the water.



Quote:
Pablo Neruda (1904-1973) is arguably the most influential poet in the Spanish language. Born Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto in southern Chile to a teacher and a railroad foreman, the poet took on the name of a nineteenth-century Czech writer, Jan Neruda, in his teens, to conceal his writing pursuits from his disapproving father. He first published poetry in a magazine at age fourteen. In 1921, he moved from the countryside to Santiago, "with his head 'filled with books, dreams, and poems buzzing around like bees.'" (Roman, 33) By 1923, he had published his first book of poetry. His life as a starving poet changed when a friend with political connections got Neruda named as consul to Rangoon, just one site in a string of consulates before he returned to Chile in 1932. Despite growing popularity as a poet, he could not make a living at writing and so went back to consul work in Buenos Aires and then Madrid. In Madrid, Neruda sympathized with the Spanish people, Republicans, attempting to hold fast against the Fascists who were supported by Hitler and Mussolini. His loyalty to one side of the conflict got him removed from Madrid and placed in Paris where ultimately he was able to aid 2,000 Spanish refugees in reaching Chile. Much of Neruda's poetry reflected his sympathy for the people who fought fascism and lost. With the German invasion of Poland in 1940, Neruda was appointed consul general of Mexico where he continued the struggle for social justice. Disillusioned with Mexico's political conflicts, he returned home in 1943 and aligned himself with the Communists who impressed him as a solution to the struggle for social reform in Latin America. Neruda's tolerance for Communism was not looked upon with favor and he was forced into exile for a number of years eventually returning to Chile with amnesty, running for the presidency and then dropping out to support Salvador Allende's campaign. He won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1971 and died in Santiago in 1973, only days after Allende's death and the overthrow of the Popular Unity government.

In his Nobel Prize acceptance speech, Neruda explained the connection between politics and poetry: "In the midst of the arena of America's struggles I saw that my human task was none other than to join the extensive forces of the organized masses of the people, to join with life and soul, with suffering and hope, but it is only from this great popular stream that the necessary changes can arise for writers and for nations . . . Lastly, I wish to say to the people of good will, to the workers, to the poets, that the whole future has been expressed in this line by Rimbaud: 'Only with a burning patience can we conquer the splendid City, which will give light, justice, and dignity to all mankind.' "
0 Replies
 
aidan
 
  1  
Reply Mon 26 Mar, 2007 03:43 am
In honor of the anniversary of the 200th anniversary of the abolition of slavery in the UK:

Mood
by Countee Cullen

I think an impulse stronger than my mind
May someday grasp a knife, unloose a vial
Or with a little leaden ball unbind
The cords that tie me to the rank and file.

My hands grow quarrelsome with bitterness,
And darkly bent upon the final fray;
Night with its stars upon a grave seems less
Indecent than the too complacent day.

God knows I would be kind, let live, speak fair,
Requite an honest debt with more than just,
And love for Christ's dear sake these shapes that wear
A pride that had its genesis in dust-

The meek are promised much in a book I know
But one grows weary turning cheek to blow.


Yet Do I Marvel
by Countee Cullen

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why
The little buried mole continues blind,
Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,
Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus
Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare
If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus
To struggle up a never-ending stair.
Inscrutable His ways are, and immune
To catechism by a mind too strewn
With petty cares to slightly understand
What awful brain compels His awful hand.
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:
To make a poet black, and bid him sing!


Quote:
Countee Cullen was very secretive about his life. According to different sources, he was born in Louisville, Kentucy or Baltimore, Md. Cullen was possibly abandoned by his mother, and reared by a woman named Mrs. Porter, who was probably his paternal grandmother. Cullen once said that he was born in New York City - perhaps he did not mean it literally. Porter brought young Countee to Harlem when he was nine. She died in 1918. At the age of 15, Cullen was adopted unofficially by the Reverend F.A. Cullen, minister of Salem M.E. Church, one of the largest congregations of Harlem. Later Reverend Cullen became the head of the Harlem chapter of NAACP. His real mother did not contact him until he became famous in the 1920s.

As a schoolboy, Cullen won a citywide poetry contest and saw his winning stanzas widely reprinted. With the help of Reverend Cullen, he attended the prestigious De Witt Clinton High School in Manhattan. After graduating, he entered New York University, where his works attracted critical attention. Cullen's first collection of poems, COLOR (1925), was published in the same year he graduated from NYU. Written in a careful, traditional style, the work celebrated black beauty and deplored the effects of racism. The book included 'Heritage' and 'Incident', probably his most famous poems. 'Yet Do I Marvel', about racial identity and injustice, showed the influence of the literary expression of William Wordsworth and William Blake, but its subject was far from the world of their Romantic sonnets. The poet accepts that there is God, and 'God is good, well-meaning, kind', but he finds a contradiction of his own plight in a racist society: he is black and a poet.
A brilliant student, Cullen graduated from New York University Phi Beta Kappa. He attended Harvard, earning his masters degree in 1926. He worked as assistant editor for Opportunity magazine, where his column, 'The Dark Tower,' increased his literary reputation. Cullen's poetry collections THE BALLAD OF THE BROWN GIRL (1927) and COPPER SUN (1927) explored similar themes as Colour, but they were not so well received. Cullen's Guggenheim Fellowship of 1928 enabled him to study and write abroad. He married in April 1928 Nina Yolande Du Bois, daughter of W.E.B. DuBois, the leading black intellectual. At that time Yolande was involved romantically with a popular band leader. Between the years 1928 and 1934, Cullen travelled back and forth between France and the United States.

As a poet Cullen was conservative: he did not ignore racial themes, but based his works on the Romantic poets, especially Keats, and often used the traditional sonnet form. "Not writ in water nor in mist, / Sweet lyric throat, thy name. / Thy singing lips that cold death kissed / Have seared his own with flame." ('2. For John Keats, Apostle of Beauty') However, Cullen also enjoyed Langston Hughes's black jazz rhythms, but more he loved "the measured line and the skillful rhyme" of the 19th century poetry. After the early 1930s Cullen avoided racial themes. Cullen's later publications include ON THESE I STAND (1947), a collection of his favorite poems, and the play THE THIRD FOURTH OF JULY (publ. 1946). Cullen died of uremic poisoning in New York City on January 9, 1946. Private about his life, he left behind no autobiography.
0 Replies
 
aidan
 
  1  
Reply Sun 17 Jun, 2007 02:40 am
To honor all the fathers on the forum:

My Father's Hat
by Mark Irwin

Sunday mornings I would reach
high into his dark closet while standing
on a chair and tiptoeing reach
higher, touching, sometimes fumbling
the soft crowns and imagine
I was in a forest, wind hymning
through pines, where the musky scent
of rain clinging to damp earth was
his scent I loved, lingering on
bands, leather, and on the inner silk
crowns where I would smell his
hair and almost think I was being
held, or climbing a tree, touching
the yellow fruit, leaves whose scent
was that of a clove in the godsome
air, as now, thinking of his fabulous
sleep, I stand on this canyon floor
and watch light slowly close
on water I'm not sure is there.


Biographical Information:
"Mark Irwin was born in Faribault, Minnesota in 1953 and graduated from the University of Iowa in 1980. He is the author of five collections of poetry, including his most recent, Bright Hunger (BOA 2004), The Halo of Desire and Against the Meanwhile (3 Elegies). He has also translated two volumes of poetry. His awards include The Nation/Discovery Award, a Pushcart Prize, National Endowment for the Arts and Ohio Arts Council Fellowships, and a Fulbright Fellowship to Romania.
He lives with his family in Denver, Colorado. "
0 Replies
 
kaggy44
 
  1  
Reply Mon 16 Jul, 2007 10:29 pm
as of the moment, this is my favorite poem:


TEARS, IDLE TEARS by tennyson

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
0 Replies
 
kaggy44
 
  1  
Reply Mon 16 Jul, 2007 10:34 pm
i read the above poem with an excerpt of tennyson's my lost youth at the back of my mind, which goes:

"there are things of which i may not speak
there are dreams that cannot die
there are thoughts that make the strong heart weak
and bring a pallor into the cheek
and a mist before the eye..."


i guess you could say i am growing old. Very Happy
0 Replies
 
Quincy
 
  1  
Reply Tue 24 Jul, 2007 03:45 pm
"my sweet old etcetera" by ee cummings

my sweet old etcetera
aunt lucy during the recent

war could and what
is more did tell you just
what everybody was fighting

for,
my sister

Isabel created hundreds
(and
hundreds)of socks not to
mention fleaproof earwarmers
etcetera wristers etcetera, my
mother hoped that

i would die etcetera
bravely of course my father used
to become hoarse talking about how it was
a privilege and if only he
could meanwhile my

self etcetera lay quietly
in the deep mud et

cetera
(dreaming,
et
cetera, of
Your smile
eyes knees and of your Etcetera)
0 Replies
 
DrMom
 
  1  
Reply Sun 2 Sep, 2007 11:12 pm
bookmarking
0 Replies
 
Gelisgesti
 
  1  
Reply Sun 2 Sep, 2007 11:47 pm
0 Replies
 
DrMom
 
  1  
Reply Tue 11 Sep, 2007 04:28 pm
Quote:
At Burt Lake- Tom Andrews (1961-2001)
To disappear into the right words
and to be their meanings


Is there more to this? This doesn't seem complete.
0 Replies
 
aidan
 
  1  
Reply Fri 14 Sep, 2007 07:26 am
I guess the way I posted that was confusing. I've put the entire poem below:

At Burt Lake
by: Tom Andrews

To disappear into the right words
and to be their meanings...

October dusk.
Pink scraps of clouds, a plum-colored sky.
The sycamore tree spills a few leaves.
The cold focuses like a lens.

Now night falls, its hair
caught in the lake's eye.

Such a clarity of things. Already
I've said too much.

Lord, language must happen
to you the way this black pane of water,
chipped and blistered with stars,
happens to me.

Biographical information: http://chronicle.com/jobs/2002/04/2002040401c.htm
0 Replies
 
 

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